Under the Stands
by lampshaded
Summary: DM/HP ficlet about Harry's addiction to his rival.


Under the Stands

I never thought I'd be in this situation.

If Trelawney would have prophesized this, I might have had some warning or figured out a way to avoid it.

But now it's a lost cause to try and fight; I'm that addicted.

I've got thirty minutes to get on the field and begin practice, but where am I? Pulling up a Gryffindor banner and dodging between the wooden columns below the Quidditch stands.

I sigh and lean my broom against a support; it's been a long day. I have no warning as I crash to the ground with a heavy weight settling on my back.

Spitting out a mouthful of dry dirt, I try to push my attacker off. A wand pressed to the side of my throat prohibits all movement. I can hear the dry chuckle of the wizard holding me captive.

"Humbled, Potter? Feeling the need to eat dirt in my presence?" He drawls, and I can feel a knee dig into the middle of my back.

"Your presence isn't worth the occasion, Malfoy." I snarl back, rolling over quickly and kicking him away. Glaring, I stand and wipe the remaining dirt from my mouth.

He's wearing his Slytherin practice outfit; his broom is leaning on the same support as mine.

"Now, there's no reason to be so crass. We are friends, after all." Malfoy pauses and smirks, but I know better than to let my guard down. He's got a maniacal gleam in is eyes.

"Friends." I spit, as if the word held poison. "I hate you, Malfoy." His smirk only grows, and his eyes flash at the challenge.

"And I, you; Potter." He takes a step towards me; his eyes still gleaming as they lock into mine.

I can't help but feel like prey being charmed by a cobra as I take a step forward as well.

"You're a slimy git, Malfoy." I remind him, stepping to the side. His own step mirrors mine.

"I'm sure Neville could've come up with something better than that, Potter. Is it that painful to expand your vocabulary past the first year level?"

"At least I passed Hagrid's class that year; it was by far the easiest." I fire back at him as we pace in a tightening circle.

"Maybe for you; that half-human would give you a perfect score for feeding your own owl."

"You—,"

"Shouldn't we be past all this rubbish? It's not like we haven't been here before." He interrupts, his patience wearing thin. His eyes are almost dangerous now, with his mouth still locked into that thin smirk. "Again, and again, and again."

Then he's stalking towards me, much faster than our previous pacing rate. It seems like my lungs can't keep up with his actions and my heart compensates, fueled by adrenaline.

"Uh," My mind seems slow and all I can think of is to back up.

"Used up too many brain cells, Potter?" Malfoy whispers, still advancing and suddenly he's close enough that I can smell him. The worn leather of his outfit mixes with the smell of sweat from his previous practice. He smells of fresh air; something wild and free.

My back collides with a column and I'm suddenly blinded by an arrant ray of sunshine, peaking through the upper banners that cover the wooden structure.

On both of my sides, arms pin me back and I blink in the brightness, feeling his breath on my face, just above my mouth.

"You've got flecks of blue in your eyes, did you know?" Malfoy whispers, mere inches from my nose. I still can't see him, in the blinding light.

"Shut up." I tell him and grab for the back of his head. Our mouths crash together and I can taste the copper of blood. I push against his gear-covered body, battling for my own stance so I'm not the one leaning against that column. He's sturdier than he looks though, and it's an effort to make him even budge a step back. Fueled by only Merlin-knows-what, we battle for dominance, teeth and tongues clashing.

"I, bloody, hate you." I manage to tell him then bite at his lower lip.

His grip on my sides tighten.

"You're, a slimy, slug-eating, git." I inform him between breaths and offensives.

"And you, can't get enough of me." He whispers back, our foreheads meeting as an unspoken truce for breath commences. His sweat-dampened hair sticks to my wind-blown fringe.

"You're a ferret," I pronounce with venom, more air than voice. "Without loyalty to anyone except yourself."

"And you have no fashion sense and taste like dirt. Yet I'm still here."

I desperately want to wipe that smug look off his face but I say the only thing my frazzled mind can come up with.

"I hate you, Malfoy."

"And I love you too, darling." With that, his smirking mouth descends on mine and the battle resumes in all its daring ferocity.

I can only give a fleeting thought to the fact that I'll be late for practice, yet again.

...fin...


End file.
